Napalm in the Morning
by estrafalaria103
Summary: Post S4 Sam & Dean are still determined to stop the Apocalypse: even if it means stopping each other. But with a murderous Hunter on their tail, an elusive unicorn to chase, and Castiel no where in sight, can they get things back together in time to stop
1. Chapter 1

Bobby Singer stared at the two idiots sitting in front of him. Bleeding, bruised, and befuddled, they kept scuffing their feet, one against the other. Sam couldn't seem to raise his gaze from the floor, while Dean seemed to be finding something fascinating on the ceiling. There was a good five feet of space between the two chairs.

"So Lucifer got out," Bobby said, his voice as flat and emotionless as possible.

"Uh. . ." Sam glanced nervously at his brother, but clearly there was some damn interesting stucco up there. Sam licked his lips, looked back at Bobby. "Yeah."

"And you two are sitting in my living room instead of hunting him down because. . ." Bobby raised one eyebrow. The effect, of course, was lost on the Winchesters, who clearly still had their heads stuck up their asses. Bobby let out a long breath. They'd only been kids when he'd accepted that they were sorely lacking a father-figure. . .John had been a good friend, a damn good hunter, and a shit-sack father. Not, Bobby thought ruefully, that he'd been any better. Maybe it was just a fact of life. Hunters shouldn't have kids.

"We need help," Dean said, finally, breaking the silence. Obviously. Dean had always been less comfortable with silence. Sam was looking at his shoelaces now. Bobby noted idly that one was untied.

"I'll say you need help," Bobby said, standing up. He was irritated. The Apocalypse was right on their doorstep, and the boys were still too caught up in their personal dramas. Obviously, he'd have to do what he'd been putting off for years. He'd have to start traveling with them.

"Fine, ya idiots, let's hit the road. You got a trail, right?" He stared expectantly at Dean. Surely the angels would have clued them in.

"I haven't heard from Cas," Dean said, his tone uncomfortable. Now Bobby's eyes rolled skyward as well. _These_ were the two buffoons who were supposed to save the world?

"So we have no idea where he is. No idea what he's going to do." Bobby sighed. Screw this. When the trail was dead, it meant time for the boys to start the search. Hours on the road, seedier motels than usual. . .he was getting too old for this.

Wait a second. . .he was getting too old. . .

"I'll look into signs," he said gruffly. "You boys head over to Lincoln. There's someone there I want you to meet."

It was a sign of how disheartened the boys were that they didn't argue, or say a word at all. They just stood and, still without a look at each other, slouched out the door toward the Impala. Bobby paused with his hand on the phone. He'd thought this was a good idea. He hoped it was.

* * * * *

Leslie was getting very irritated, and it showed. She knew it showed. She knew her shoulders were hunched over, tight, and that her face was constricted into a very unattractive mask of annoyance. She knew her breath must reek of alcohol, and she knew the constant drumming of her knee underneath the table was pissing off everyone in the room. Fine, she thought. Let them be pissed off. She sure was.

And then, finally, the door opened and they came in. Leslie glanced at her watch. Only two hours late. Swell. Bobby was lucky that she owed him her life. She didn't wait this long for anyone. Ever.

They didn't look anything like brothers, she thought critically as they ambled toward her table. They didn't act like it either. They looked more like magnets, whose polarity had been reversed. The one was absolutely huge. Leslie was a tall girl, but she was pretty certain that if she stood up she would only come up to his shoulders. If she was lucky.

She hadn't worn heels. That meant she would be staying seated.

The other one was shorter, but clearly older. She sensed a bit of a defeatist attitude in him – like he'd given up. She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he was just hung-over.

They stopped just in front of her, Andre the Giant peering at her with pleading puppy dog eyes behind overgrown bangs. She thought her heart skipped a beat. The other one just lifted an eyebrow.

"Leslie?" he asked, and his voice was a low rasp. There it was. . .her heart had caught its cadence again.

"The one and only," she said. "take a seat."

They did so, the shorter one instantly signaling the bartender for a beer. Hatchback tweaked an eyebrow at Leslie. She looked at the half pint left in front of her, considered for a second, then threw it back and nodded. A moment later Hatchback had placed two foaming mugs on her table and headed back behind the bar.

"So," Andre said. She took a fortifying sip, looked at him again. Oh, thank God, the puppy dog eyes were gone, replaced by perfectly normal hazel eyes. For a moment she wondered if she was hallucinating again, then figured not. They'd both be wearing firefighting gear if she were.

"So. Bobby sent you, huh?" she asked. They nodded. She took another sip of beer. They continued to just sit, Andre the giant patiently, the short one seemingly engrossed in his drink. Leslie continued to watch them.

Bobby hadn't told her why he'd sent them. That wasn't unusual – Bobby had inherited the apparent Hunter disease of being cryptic. At least he was usual better about it than most Hunters. It was just occasional. . .lapses. The way he'd sounded, she'd assumed that he was sending her a pair of green babies, who hadn't seen anything more on a hunt than a wimpy ghost. Obviously that wasn't the case. The two men in front of her were young, but not that young. The older one had to be around her age, maybe a year or two younger – less if she was wearing foundation.

Plus there was the way they walked. . .feet spread apart, braced for attack, like rugby players or pit bulls. Their faces were busted up, recently – probably on a hunt. Their shoulders hung low – the weight of the world, and their eyes were shadowed. They'd seen things. They knew. Light scars, barely visible – she saw them because she was looking. Lucky they were young. In a few years, those scars wouldn't disappear so easily. It would be pretty hard for them to hang on to those pretty faces then.

She kept looking at them. She was good at reading people – Bobby had always said so, and Bobby wasn't a slacker himself. A bit of a hillbilly, a redneck yokel, but not an idiot. She'd learned a lot from him. Just like she was learning a lot from Batman and Robin. The older one seemed more haunted, somehow. She focused her attention on him. Green eyes, eyelashes to die for. . .and there it was. The way he held his shoulder. He'd been marked. She tried not to show her surprise, turned her gaze to the other one, and it was so _obvious_ now, she didn't know how she hadn't seen it the minute they'd walked in. Both marked. The pawns in a chess game, one white, one black, and it was equally obvious that the poor fools didn't even know it.

"You're Sam and Dean Winchester," she said. They didn't seem surprised that she recognized them.

"In the flesh," the older one, Dean, said, and his mouth tilted up in a half smile. His teeth were blindingly white. Leslie closed her eyes, shook her head. Bobby was going to pay for this one. Slowly. With his beard, maybe.

"Great," she said, almost seething. "Fantastic."

"Is something wrong?" Sam asked.

"Of course not," she said. "Everything's just peachy. You're the two idiots who let Lucifer free. Idiots."

"Hey!" Dean protested. Sam looked a little apologetic, at least.

"We're sorry," he said, his tone a little earnest. "We didn't know."

"I'm going to kill Bobby," Leslie seethed. Pissed didn't begin to describe how she was feeling. "Sixty-six seals. Sixty-six in the whole world. And, let's see, there were only two that had to be broken. Only two specific ones. And you idiots broke those."

"We didn't mean to," Sam said plaintively, but Leslie was on a roll. She stood, slammed her drink down on the table.

"Fuck off," she said. "Because of you two we've got the whole Apocalypse breathing down our throats. I'll give Dean a freebie on the whole breaking in Hell thing, but Sam Hain? Really? And Lilith? No. I don't care what Bobby thinks, I'm not having anything to do with you."

She considered throwing the pint in their faces and storming off – it seemed like an appropriate motion – but she knew the drink was already on her tab, and there was really no reason to waste perfectly good beer, so instead she just grabbed it and headed to the bar. One glare at Hatchback assured her that he wouldn't bother her.

Damn Winchesters. Damn, fucking Winchesters.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam watched in amazement as the cranky, foul-mouthed brunette stood, grabbed her beer, and marched (somewhat bow-leggedly, he noticed) over to the bar. He turned to stare at Dean, and for the first time in days, his brother stared back at him.

"Do you think Bobby sent us to exorcise that thing?" Dean asked. Sam couldn't help it. He giggled. Just a little bit, and not like a girl, or anything, but it was a definite giggle. Dean's lips twitched a little as if maybe, just maybe he were going to smile back, but of course he didn't.

Sam didn't know why he was still getting his hopes up. His brother wasn't going to forgive him – not anytime soon, anyway. He could remember all too vividly the fight – Dean, broken on the ground, yelling at him – don't you ever come back. Don't you ever come back.

And as if that betrayal weren't bad enough, what had it been for? To kill Lilith—to play right into the demons hands. And, if Dean could be trusted (and Sam did trust his big brother – more than anything in the world) right into the angels hands, as well. And if Lucifer hadn't seem quite as, well, terrifying as one would expect, he was still out. Still free. And it was all Sam's fault.

* * *

_They held up their hands, trying to protect sensitive eyes from blinding white light. In a dim recess of Sam's mind he noted that it was a familiar white – the same blinding purity of Anna when she'd taken back her grace – but surely it couldn't be the same, because they weren't exactly deaing with angels there, anyway._

_And then the light faded, dawn into day. Sam dropped his hand, could sense at his side as his brother did the same. A man stared down at them, short, reddish hair, a horribly sad look in his eyes._

_The man glanced at Lilith's body, still slumped against the altar. Ruby, wasted on the ground, and then settled finally on Sam and Dean. A gentle smile graced his lips._

_"Hello, Dean," he said, his voice still strangely soothing. "I'm sorry that we never met when you were down in the pit. I was very interested in you."_

_And then, turning, to Sam,_

_"Thank you."_

_And that was it. He just walked out. Sam fell back against the hard, stone floor, panting. _

* * * * *

"Well, I say we beat it," Dean said, and stood up, clearly expecting Sam to follow, an obedient puppy once again. Sam wanted to – he really just wanted his brother to look at him again, to see that he'd only been trying to do the right thing – but of course he couldn't. He'd never been able to follow, and if he'd been the one to believe in a God above, it had always been with doubt. Dean's loyalty was harder to gain, but once gained, it was eternal. And somehow Castiel had gained that loyalty, and Sam, unbelievably, had lost it.

"Wait," he said, cringing even as the words left his mouth. "I think we should stay here. Maybe she knows something."

"Yeah," Dean said sarcastically. "She knows how to throw back Guiness. That's it." Sam glanced back at the woman, and sure enough, she seemed to be downing an Irish car bomb. Maybe Dean was right. He stood.

"Still. . ." Sam said. "Bobby sent us to her. Do you really think he would have sent us if it weren't important?"

Dean sighed, rolled his eyes, spread out his arms in a hopeless gesture. "Fine, Sam, you want to go talk up the crazy broad, go ahead. I'm heading back to the motel."

"Yeah. . ." Sam swallowed, tried to gain some objectivity, but failed under the fire of Dean's withering glance. "I'll. . .uh. . .meet you there, okay?"

Dean muttered something under his breath, which Sam refused to acknowledge. As soon as his brother stomped out of the bar, he headed toward the woman – Leslie – once again.

"Hey," he said, sitting beside her. She glared at him, daggers, and even if her gaze was a little off, it was still enough to give her shivers. She leaned down, never taking her eyes off him, and pulled a dagger out of the top of her boot.

"Look, pretty boy," she said, and her voice was only the slightest bit slurred. "I already told you. I want nothing to do with you and your fucking brother."

"I know you don't like us much," Sam said. "And I don't blame you. But we need help, and Bobby thought you could help."

Leslie laughed, a short, bitter, painful-sounding choke of a laugh. Sam gritted his teeth. "You're serious," she said. "You think Bobby wanted me to help _you_."

"Well. . .yeah. . ." Sam said slowly. "Didn't he talk to you."

"Listen," Leslie stood up now, steady on her feet, knife still pointed at his throat. The bartender glanced at them without interest. Obviously having the crazy brunette threaten customer was a regular part of the place's culture. "You two have fun chasing down the reigning king of hell. You set him free, you put him back in the cage. I'm already working a job."

Sam stared at her. "Wait. . .you're a Hunter?"

He supposed that the idea should have occurred to him. After all, about the only "people" Bobby knew were Hunters and psychics. It was just. . .she didn't look like a Hunter. She was tall, for a woman, and broad-shoulder. She had a creepy-looking scar running down the side of her neck, he noticed – it had been hidden by the crazy curls of hair earlier. But she was. . .well. . .

"You've never seen a woman Hunter either," she said dryly, and Sam realized it was almost true. There had been Jo, but she'd never actually succeeded as a Hunter, and the woman and husband team they'd met. . .but that was it. Dean said their mom had been a Hunter, but that was still a little hard to swallow.

"I just. . ." Sam struggled for words, failed. "Sorry."

"That word comes out of your mouth a lot," Leslie said. She put a hand to her head, sighed. Sam couldn't stop staring at her, now. A Hunter. Wow.

"What kind of case are you working on?" Sam asked, genuinely curious now. She was a lot younger than most of Bobby's Hunter friends. . .she only looked to be around Dean's age. Maybe older, maybe younger – it was hard to tell, with the make-up. Leslie glanced at him out of slitted eyes.

"You're not going to believe it," she said to him.

"Hey, we're all in this together, right?" Sam said with a cheerful grin. She seemed to be warming up to him, finally, though maybe she was just drunk.

"Okay," she said. "Tell you what. You guys let me crash at your motel, I'll let you in on the case. And maybe. . .just maybe. . .when it's finished I won't Hunt the two of you."

Sam hesitated. Dean wouldn't like it. He wouldn't like it one bit if Sam were to bring back this strange woman that his brother had already developed a distaste for. He wouldn't like putting off their search for Lucifer. But Sam just couldn't shake the feeling – Bobby had never been wrong – _never_ – and if he sent them to Leslie, there had to be something to the woman that could help them out somehow.

"First tell me what the case is," Sam said firmly, but his mind was already made up. Dean would just have to deal. This thing was bigger than any of them – the Apocalypse, that is – and if their relationship had to suffer, well, he'd gone through three years of college without even a phone call, so he figured he could deal with a little strain.

"If you call me crazy, I stab you," Leslie said, waving the knife around in the air, and Sam couldn't force an amused smile from appearing on her face. She was clearly drunk. She frowned at him a little.

"Just tell me," Sam urged. Leslie sighed.

"Unicorns," she said finally. "I'm hunting some fairy-assed unicorns."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean was lying on the bed when the lights of the car streaked through the window. He didn't shift – not one bit. When the lock turned in the door, he forced himself to stay calm, not to jump – Sam had to know that he trusted him, that he was trying, at least.

Of course, all such mature, rational thoughts went flying when the two figures entered the room.

"Sam, what the hell?" he asked, practically flying off the bed. The bar bitch was standing right behind him, a little wild-eyed, and leaning slightly against his brother's frame.

"Leslie's going to stay with us for the night," Sam said, maneuvering the (clearly drunk) woman to the couch. Dean just kept staring at them.

"Seriously Sam?" he finally managed to get out. "What is this? You're collecting strays now?"

Sam turned to look at him, his face shielded, but Dean hadn't grown up with the kid not to recognize the hurt lurking behind those eyes.

"Bobby. . ."

"Bobby Singer is an asshole," Leslie said. She stretched her legs out on the couch, settled in, and stretched, long, feline. Dean didn't mind watching. She might be a bitch, but she had a rocking body.

"She's a Hunter," Sam said.

"No shit," Dean pursed his lips. Explained the hard body, then. Leslie turned and. . .get this. . .winked! The bitch winked! Dean stared at her in amazement.

"She's working a case right now, but she says she'll try and help her after."

"A case, huh?" Dean considered. A case did sound tempting – forget about the whole heaven and hell thing, for a few days at least, kill some evil sons of bitches. . . "What's she hunting?"

"Um. . .see. . .that's the thing," Sam said, uncomfortable now. Dean knew that voice. It was the same voice Sam had used when he'd been three, and been caught with his hand in the ammo drawer. It was the GUILTY Sam voice. Nothing good came of the GUILTY Sam voice. "She's kind of hunting. . .um. . .unicorns."

"Unicorns?" Dean asked. "Seriously, Sam? Unicorns?"

He glanced at Leslie, but apparently after all the booze and the stretching she'd passed out. No help there. But there was absolutely no way he was going to stay around and fight a bunch of prancing white ponies. No way. He grabbed his duffel, which he hadn't unpacked yet, and headed to the door.

"C'mon, Sam," he ordered. He glanced back, and his brother was staring with the puppy dog eyes at the unconscious figure on the couch.

"We can't just leave her here," Sam said plaintively. Dean stared at his brother.

"Yes we can," he said. "Sam, we've got Lucifer and the hordes of hell breathing down our neck. Yeah, we can leave some broad who can't handle her liquor snoring on a couch."

"Bobby. . ."

"Shut up about Bobby!" Dean growled. He lifted the duffel higher on his shoulder. "This isn't about Bobby. This is about you, and me, and the fact that you won't listen to me for one damn second."

"You're not in charge of me, Dean," Sam said, and his voice was low and calm. Damn, Dean thought, realizing that he'd lost. He'd gone one step too far and he'd lost. Never a good sportsman, he threw the duffel on the floor, stomped to his bed, and pulled the covers over his body.

"Fine," he growled. "But we leave first thing in the morning."

And he sure as hell wasn't turning around to see his baby brother's smirk.

* * * * *

Leslie was not happy when she woke up. Her head was screaming at her, a reminder that she wasn't twenty years old anymore, and that three Irish car bombs were never a good idea.

Plus her back was cramping, and she was pretty sure that she smelled like rats. She opened her eyes, not surprised to see that she had fallen asleep on a couch. She couldn't decide if it was an improvement over the backseat of her car or not.

Rolling over, she had to acknowledge that at least she'd fallen asleep in a place with a good view. Two half-naked men were sprawled out on the room's two queen-sized beds. Chivalry was clearly dead, though, she thought as she unfolded her body from the couch. She walked – slowly – to the bathroom and ran some water over her face.

So, she thought. She was stuck, for the moment at least, with Sam and Dean Winchesters, harbingers of the Apocalypse, irritated brothers, and sexy beasts. Swell. She pulled her hair back up into a ponytail and walked back into the main room. Sam was awake now, propped up against the back of his bed, eyes still gritty from sleep, but Dean was still snoring in his own bed, his face half-smushed into the pillow.

"How you feeling?" Sam asked, his eyes conciliatory. Leslie stared at him for a moment. She'd expected some kind of a crazy, asstard from Sam Winchester. After all, he was the demon's contender for the next King of Earth, or so she'd heard. Demon blood pumped in him as a baby, and then taken willingly as an adult. He certainly didn't seem like the leader of the Armies of Darkness.

"Fine, thanks," Leslie said. She was glad that the men hadn't taken her boots off at night – she definitely wouldn't want to wander around the room in bare feet. She was pretty sure that she could see cockroaches scuttling away from her.

"So, I was doing some research last night," Sam said, and as though to prove his point he pulled his laptop over. Curious, Leslie headed over and perched behind him on the bed. "But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find any lore pointing to unicorns being evil. They're fierce, and in Chinese lore they're similar to a chimera, but they never attack humans. What gives?"

Leslie laughed a little. Boys. Always so literal-minded. Sam really did look like a little boy in the morning, his too-long hair all mused up, and those eyes droopy with sleep. She couldn't help it. She reached out a ruffled the hair. The puppy dog look dropped instantly, and Sam pierced her with the most annoyed bitchface she'd ever seen. She laughed.

"Huh-wha?" Dean instantly sat up in bed, his arms flying out as though in protection from. . .from what, Leslie couldn't be quite certain. He spun around, saw Leslie in bed with his brother, and instantly put on a pout face.

"Sam, come on!" he whined. "When I'm in the room?"

"Huh?" Sam just looked confused. Leslie sighed, shook her head.

"Sorry, Dean," she said. "He's not my type." Dean pursed his lips, raised one eyebrow, and Leslie laughed again. "Neither are you. I don't go for demon spawn _or_ angels' bitches."

Now Sam and Dean were both glowering, and the good mood brought in by the morning sun had disappeared. Leslie slung her legs over the side of the bed. Sam took that as his cue, and he headed toward the bathroom.

"Listen, lady," Dean said, all serious once his brother was gone. "I don't have anything against you, personally, but there's no way we're hunting unicorns."

"Why not?" Leslie asked. "You don't want to hurt the pretty ponies?"

"Uh. . .they don't exist," Dean said pointedly. Leslie wondered, yet again, why Bobby thought these two idiots were worth her time.

"Guess what, Dean-o," she said. "They do exist."

Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam reentered the room, his mouth full of lather, toothbrush hanging out one side. He pulled it out for a moment to talk

"But why hunt them?" he asked. "if they're not evil."

"Casualties of war," Leslie said. "Their horns are full of power. . .the most powerful weapon we have."

"We have the knife," Dean pointed out. That took Leslie a moment. The knife? What were they. . .but then she remembered something Bobby had told her over the summer, after Dean had died. About the Colt, and an even more powerful knife. Clearly, through some miracle, the boys still had it.

"That knife can't kill angels," Leslie said.

"And a unicorn horn can?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"Of course not," Leslie said. These boys sure weren't very smart. "Like you said, Sam unicorns are good. They can't hurt anything good. They cleanse – purify. Supposedly the horns can cure any poison, any disease – anything dark or wrong."

"Still don't see how this helps us," Dean said. Leslie was seething. Of course. Because it was all about _them_. Because the case she'd been working before they'd even arrived somehow had to tie to _them_. But the sickening thing was, the more she thought about it, the more she thought about Bobby, the more she thought it might. She was fucked.

"It purifies," she said again, speaking slowly now, so their limited intelligence could keep up. "For instance, it could purify a fallen angel who lost his grace. . ."

Sam understands first, and his face lights up. "Lucifer," he breathes, and Leslie is a little creeped out by how reverent he sounds. There's the demon blood, she thinks. Dean seems to be thinking along the same lines, because he's looking at his brother with a closed expression on his face.

"Nuh-uh, Sam," he says firmly. "Not again. You're not going on another vendetta mission."

"That's beside the point," Sam said, clearly trying to avoid the issue. "First we have to find the unicorn. . ."

"No, it's not beside the point," Dean said. "Because I know you, Sam, as twisted and messed up as you may have gotten, you're still my brother and I still know you and I know the minute we get that horn –which might not even _exist_" Leslie resented the look tossed her way, almost as an afterthought – "you'll be off trying to take down Lucifer. Sam, deal with it."

"I set him free," Sam said. "He's my responsibility."

"And you're mine!" Dean exploded.

"Shut up!" Leslie threw herself in there. "You two are ridiculous. What the fuck are you even arguing about?"

"Um. . ." Dean seemed uncomfortable, but Sam pouted and just looked at her.

"Long story," he said. Leslie kept staring. "See, I started drinking demon blood, to become more powerful."

"So?" Leslie knew that her eyebrows were practically in her hairline. So what.

"That's. . .not good," Sam said.

"Why not?"

"Because it's demon blood!" Dean was yelling, and seriously, Leslie thought, did the kid know how to do anything beside yell? "You can't tell me that's not messed up!"

"Whoa, Nelly, bitch, hold back there," she said, holding up her hand, because really, these two were ridiculous. Talk about having their panties in a twist. "I'm gonna say this once, and then you two are gonna zip your lips and we're gonna go out and catch us a unicorn. Dean, honey, baby, sweetie, you're a bit of a hypocrite. You're all freaked that your darling Sammy is throwing his soul away with this demon blood, but didn't you just sell your soul a little over a year ago? So get off your high horse, stumpy, shut your trap, and just do your job for once." She stood up, opened the door, and glared at the sniveling little losers again. "Seriously. If every Hunter had this much angst the world would be one scary place."


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn't that Bobby was waiting for them to call. Not exactly. Sam and Dean weren't exactly the type to check in before heading off to get their brains blown out. It was just that. . .well. . .he'd sort of expected Leslie to call. Screaming, of course, and swearing up a storm, and probably making him glad once again that he'd kicked her out of the house at sixteen, but still. That had been a low blow, sending the Winchesters her way. He just couldn't deal with all those soulful looks and pained silences. He wasn't exactly Dr. Phil.

Of course, Leslie hadn't been, either. At least, not the Leslie he knew, all wild hair and teenage rebellion, and knives hidden down her boots. She'd been pissed at him when she'd found out about the Hunting, even more pissed when she'd learned what he'd done to her mom, and she'd stormed out, threatening never to return when he'd asked her leave the house for John's visits. And she'd kept true to that word: she'd never returned.

But Bobby didn't think she was like that, not anymore. Not with the letters he'd been getting from the church. . .he figured if anyone could straighten the boys out, it was a woman of God. And if she just happened to be his steel back-boned daughter, well, more luck to her.

Still . . .he glanced at the phone again. Still. . .why hadn't she called? Where were the death threats? Or the Christly forgiveness? It was getting a bit eerie. . .and where was Dean's exasperated questions, or Sam's more inquisitive and insightful ones? It was just wrong, was what it was. Too quiet.

So Bobby did what he always did. He plopped a trucker hat on his head, took a long pull of whiskey and a longer pull of root beer, and headed out to the car garage. It was obviously going to be another case of good ol' Bobby to the rescue.

* * * *

"Sam," Dean said, his voice low. Sam was almost afraid to look over toward the driver's seat. He didn't think he could handle what Dean so often called a "chick flick moment." He just wanted to ignore what Leslie had said back in the motel, pretend it hadn't happened. Dean, surprisingly, was the one who didn't seem able to drop it.

"Sam," he said again, insistently, a little louder this time. Sam sighed.

"Yeah, Dean?"

Dean glanced over, just a quick shift of the eyes, and then he was back to the road again. Well, Sam thought, at least if he drove too fast he was usual safe about it.

"She scares me, Sam," Dean said. Sam laughed. He couldn't help it. Dean laughed, too, but it was uneasy and short.

"No, seriously," he said again. "I say we salt and burn her."

"We can't salt and burn her!" Sam said. "She's human! And she's still alive. And I think, in her own way, she's trying to help us."

"She's trying to drive us insane, you mean," Dean griped. "We're sure she's not a demon?"

"You sneaked the holy water in her coffee yourself," Sam pointed out. Dean sighed, shrugged.

"Still. . ." Dean said uneasily. "She knows things, Sam."

That made Sam uncomfortable. Because Dean was right. She did know things, that no human knew: things that even Bobby hadn't been told. It was like she had some kind of an inside connection, like. . .

"Do you think she's a prophet?" Sam asked abruptly, and that drew Dean's gaze away from the road again. Before his brother would say a "huh-wha?" Sam continued to explain his thought. "Like Chuck. It would explain how she knows this stuff. . .might explain why Bobby sent us to her."

"I don't know—" Dean began, but whatever he'd been about to say was cut off when the Cadillac they'd been trailing abruptly fishtailed into a ditch. Dean cursed, and began spinning the wheel, trying frantically to keep the Impala from flying into the rear end of the other car. Reflexively, Sam reached out and grabbed the dashboard, aware that it wouldn't help one bet.

The Impala swung around, narrowly missing the end of the Cadillac, wheels screaming. Dean swore again, beads of sweat bursting out on his forehead. Sam could only imagine what was going on in his brothers head; no worry for their safety, but for what the grinding sounds meant for his precious baby. Moments later they had joined the Cadillac in the ditch.

"What the" Dean swung the door open and clomped out. Sam took a steadying breath before doing the same.

Leslie was climbing out of her own car, legs unfolding first, followed by the rest of her body. She didn't look even the least bit surprised to see Dean, arms-crossed, lips-pursed, stalking her down.

"It's right again here," she said, holding up some strange kind of pendant, glowing a soft white. "Be quiet."

Dean's mouth was working on overload. Lips pursed, then relaxed, then sneering, than lax again. Sam shook his head. He could almost read the thoughts flying through his brother's mind. Almost.

"Okay," Dean said, finally, his body still tense and rigid. "How do we kill this thing?"

Leslie smiled at that, held up one finger. "Only one way to even catch the unicorn," she said. "Somebody pure of heart and pure of body."

Sam's jaw dropped. Was the woman completely insane? Were they out here to kidnap a unicorn, or a virgin? A glance around reassured him that there wasn't another person, not even a house or car, within miles. If she'd lost her marbles, she'd really lost them.

"Really?" Dean scoffed, voicing Sam's own thoughts. "And where are we gonna find one of those?"

"You," Leslie said, a too-sweet smile on her face. Her gaze was directed at Dean. And that did it, the stress and the tension just reached a peak. Sam burst out into giggles.

"D-Dean?" He asked, gasping out between chortles. "Dean's your purity pledge? We are _so_ fucked!"

Leslie sauntered over, hips swaying, that smile still on her face. She reached up and gently ran a hand down Dean's slack face. "I'm not stupid," she said. She gently slapped Dean. "Not you, per se. But your little angel friend. He's about as pure as we're going to get."

"Who?" Dean asked. "Cas? No can do. I haven't seen him in forever."

Leslie shrugged. "That's okay," she said. Sam was bent over now, still trying to get over his giggle fit. His hands were placed lightly on his thighs, and he was still gasping in breath. Tears stood out in his eyes, blurring his vision. That's why he didn't notice when she pulled out the knife. Didn't even notice the knife until he heard Dean's gasp.  
"Son of a bitch," his brother choked. That got Sam's attention, jerked it up, in time to see Leslie twitch the knife, her face completely blank. Dean's gaze turned from the knife to Sam, his eyes still wide, a little panicked-looking now.  
"Sammy?" he gasped. He fell to the ground. Something inside of Sam broke.

He couldn't even speak, he just sprang at the woman, tackled her to the ground. "You bitch!" He screamed, lifting a fist and bashing in her face. It was easier to punch a girl than he'd thought. He'd seen Dean do it before, but some chivalry had held him back. No such things now. Another, and another, and one eye was already puffing shut, blood streaming from her nose and mouth. He lifted his fist again, but behind him heard again, that choking sob. . .

"Sammy?"

He glanced down at the woman. Her eyes were unfocused, looking at his ear instead of his face. She wasn't out, but she wouldn't be doing anything. He kicked her in the side, once, and then sprang to his brother's side.

"Dean?" he said, and those stupid tears were in his eyes again. He reached down, his arms shaking. Dean's hands were lightly clasped over his middle, already stained red. Green eyes met hazel. Dean's mouth was slightly open.

"No," Sam breathed. "Not like this." A thousand deaths flew at him in that moment. That horrible, unending Tuesday. . .the black dogs. . .the hospital after Alistair. . .Dean choked a little, a bubble of blood escaping his lips.

"No," Sam said again, but he knew it was hopeless. Dean couldn't talk, couldn't even move.

That was when the sky went white.


	5. Chapter 5

Bobby had always been able to tell when things were. It was a gift. It was also a socially reclusive personality that gave him plenty of time to read and research rather than talking to actual human beings. So he knew all the signs of tulpas, Tricksters, shapeshifters, werewolves, vampires, ghosts, lingering spirits, demons, cursed objects, and Apocalyptic portents. He knew about charms, witches, hexes, and magic.

This reclusivity had also led to an increased affinity for those he did care about. Which at this point was narrowed down to three people: the Winchester kids, and his daughter. And right now his Spidey senses were tingling for all three.

Then the sky went white, which was very bad, indeed. It meant the angels were on the warpath. Which should make him feel better – after all, weren't angels supposed to save the world? But the way things were going – Lucifer leashed, and the marks on the boys that had been impossible to miss – he had the feeling that any angel interference was very, very bad indeed.

Bobby how always been able to tell when things were bad. Usually it meant that he put together a safety net and a good plan for retreat. In this case, it meant that he pressed his foot down a little more firmly on the accelerator and started heading toward it.

* * *

Everything was going a little fuzzy. Dean wasn't sure that was such a bad thing, given the situation. It meant that the pain in his gut had receded, meant that the chills which had come out of nowhere, wracking his body, had disappeared. Meant that he didn't feel quite so guilty for letting the bitch get close to him.

"Dean! Dean!" It also meant that the words trickling out of his brother's mouth were beginning to sound ridiculous. Dean. What a silly word, silly name. Dean. Like James Dean. Or Jimmy Dean. Sausage.

The hazel eyes were beginning to unravel, and Sam's anxious face was becoming a blur of pink. It almost looked like he had a halo, now. Sam the Angel. Dean chuckled. Bad idea. As his stomach muscles constricted it caused another wash of pain to spread through his body, stealing away the fuzziness, making everything stark and agonizing again.

It wasn't a halo. It was light, blindingly white light.

"Oh, what the hell."

The one voice he'd really, really never wanted to hear again. The short, portly bald man stepped into his field of vision, easily brushing his taller, bulkier brother aside. Zachariah's unwelcome face appeared.

"Great," he muttered. "Had to get yourself banged up, didn't you Dean? Just had to get yourself in more trouble before the showdown. That's just swell."

"Fix him!" Dean couldn't see his brother, but he could hear him. Everybody in the state could probably hear him. Dean rolled his eyes. So did Zachariah.

"Of course I'm going to fix him," Zachariah said. "What do you think I came by for? Just to say hello?"

A moment later, Dean suddenly felt. . .good. Amazingly, startling good. Not only had the pain in his gut disappeared, but a thousand other aches and pains. He didn't feel tired, anymore. That crick in his back from too many hours in the car – gone. The ache behind his left knee – gone. The dull headache he'd had since waking up – gone.

"Wow," he muttered. "You're better than morphine."

"Without the addictive side effects," Zachariah said, and Dean was shocked to see – was it possible – an actual smile on the bastard's face. Which abruptly disappeared when a long, tapered knife appeared at his throat. It was visibly shaking, causing Zachariah to roll his eyes again.

"Really?" he said. "You think you're going to take me out? You can barely stand."

Dean sat up, one hand curled protectively around his stomach, although really, it felt a thousand times better. Better than he'd felt, in fact, since being pulled out of Hell. He glanced at Leslie, shaking on her feet, eyes wide and crazed. He wondered who'd done the number on her face – one eye was bruised shut, amazing, considering she'd been fine last time he'd seen her. Blood was pouring freely out of her nose, and there were tracks from her mouth and left ear. One knee buckled, and her lips pursed, but she kept the knife to the angels throat.

Zachariah sighed, turned around slowly. The knife trembled, and this time Leslie's knee did give out, and she fell to the floor. Sam looked guilty. Well, Dean thought. That explains it.

"What a nuisance -- " Zachariah said, but as he finally saw Leslie he froze, his face in a grimace of shock. He stared at her. Sam stared at her. Dean stared at her. Leslie's eyes just rolled up in her head and she fell to the ground, unconscious.

"Where did you find this girl?" Zachariah asked.

"She found us," Sam said, at the same time that Dean said "None of your business, douche."

"Sam, come on," Dean said plaintively. "These dicks have been manipulating us for ages. They are _not_ our friends!"

"They're still angels, Dean," Sam replied, his mouth in a massive frown.

"Shut up," Zachariah said, and with a wave of his hand, Dean suddenly found himself unable to talk. Not just unable to make noise, but to move his mouth at all. He tried to lift his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Nothing. Tried to growl in frustration. Nothing. Damn angels.

Zachariah knelt down – actually knelt! – placed one hand on Leslie's forehead. His hand seemed to. . glow, almost. . .and a moment later she opened her eyes, sat up. At some point her nose had stopped bleeding, and the bruising around her eye had faded.

"I'm sorry," she said, dropping her eyes. Dean almost choked. Humility? The bitch who had thrown beer in his face, slept on his couch, and dragged them into the middle of nowhere was actually acting humble? "I would never deliberately harm an angel."

"I see that," Zachariah said, and there was something almost approaching reverence in his voice as well. "You are a True Believer. There are few of those left."

"I need an angel," Leslie said, flinching. "To catch a unicorn."

Zachariah stood, his face still closed. "I see," he said. "You hope to stop Lucifer."

Leslie stood with him, pointed at Dean. "I know that you think he's the one to stop the Apocalypse. Maybe he is. But maybe he can stop it this way, instead."

Zachariah laughed at that, and Dean watched as his old mask pulled over his face – the arrogance returned. "I don't think so," he said. "Our way may be more difficult for Mr. Winchester, but overall, it's a more fool-proof plan."

"He won't like it," Leslie said. She stood as well. "He'll probably refuse."

"I doubt it," Zachariah said. "I've known Dean a while now. Been watching him most of his life. He'd sacrifice anything – everything – to save someone else. And look at it this way – it's his only chance to save his brother."

Demons lie, angels lie, demons lie, angels lie, Dean forced the words through his brain. He couldn't let the angel get to him. They'd manipulated him before, he reminded himself. With the whole stopping Lilith thing. . .stopping the Apocalypse. He didn't have to listen to them now. Zachariah walked toward him, stopped only a few inches from his face.

"Do you get it yet, Dean?" Zachariah asked. "You must have figured out by now that humans have no chance at stopping Lucifer. What? You actually thought you could kill Lucifer? You simpering wad of insecurities and self-loathing? No. You're just a human, Dean. And not much of one."

Dean glared. There wasn't much else he could do. There was movement behind him, and he could feel Sam, right behind his shoulder. Somewhere up on the highway there was the low moan of a truck's engine. The brush of headlights on the road. Not that it was much good. Zachariah laughed, and shook his head.

"No." Zachariah said again. Leslie was standing, her head still bent. "You'll be Michael's weapon. His receptacle."

"My God," Leslie breathed. "The archangel. Why was he chosen? Why is he honored?"

Zachariah sighed, shrugged. "Who knows the mind of God?" he asked. "Certainly not us."

The car engine had stopped now.

"He won't do it," Leslie pointed out, and Dean could have kissed her, for saying what he still couldn't. Leslie shrugged, pointed at him. "Go ahead. Let him say it himself. He won't. But he'll help me. He'll help with the unicorn."

"Look, princess," Zachariah lifted a hand, and Leslie's mouth opened and closed futilely. "You may be one of the true believers, but you're getting on my nerves. Let's see what Dean here has to say."

"Thanks, but I'll pass," Dean said. He sighed, worked his jaw a little. In only a few minutes kinks had appeared out of nowhere. "No desire to spend the rest of my life as an angel condom."

"Always joking," Zachariah's face was disappointed now, and he shook his head. "Too bad. No more joking." He lifted a finger, aimed it at Dean's head. Shit, Dean thought. Wrong move. But then the hand turned, twisted, aimed at Sam instead. "Bang," Zachariah said, and Sam fell to the floor with a scream. Zachariah grinned.

"Enough," Zachariah said, his tone flat. "The war has begun. We don't have our general. That's bad. Now Michael is going to take his vessel and lead the charge against the adversary. Got it?"

The motor had cut off. Leslie was still standing. Sam was on the ground, writhing in pain. Dean considered. He didn't want Sam hurting, didn't want the world to end, but he could not trust the angels. He wouldn't. And there was another way. . .the unicorn was still insane, impossible, but it was fighting. It wasn't letting some creepy God-leech inside his skin. He'd seen what it did to Cas. . .did to who Cas used to be. And besides, those angels didn't care about people. . .didn't care how many people died in the fight between Lucifer and Satan.

"No," he said, simply. "How many people would die? Hundreds? Millions?"

"More," Zachariah spit out. "More. Look, Lucifer doesn't have his vessel yet. We don't know who it is."

Leslie was pointing now, gesticulating frantically at Dean. He tried not to look at her, not to give her away. She was really looking insane, anyway. At his feet, Sam whimpered. Dean shrugged.

"There's got to be another way," Dean said. Zachariah shook his head.

"There is no other way. We could heal Sam. Hospital couldn't. . not with his legs turned to jelly."

"No," Dean said.

"Fine," Zachariah pursed his lips. "We'll heal you. From stage four stomach cancer."

And then the cramps hit, low and hard. Dean's legs gave out, he fell to the ground. Had he been stabbed again? He coughed, and something hard dislodged in his throat. His hands came away from his mouth, red. Sam whimpered again. Dean glared up at the angel.

"No," he said again. "Just kill us."

Zachariah frowned. In a smooth gesture he turned and grabbed Leslie by a knot of tangled, curly hair, and tossed her to the ground. "Let's get creative," the angel ground out between clenched teeth. "Let's see how your true believer does without any lungs."

Dean screwed his eyes shut. He couldn't see Leslie gasping for breath, a beached whale, a landed fish. "No," he whispered. His stomach spasmed, and he coughed again, a low, hollow sound.

"Fine," Zachariah said. "Then say good-bye to your precious planet


End file.
